


Black

by Elektra Pendragon (elekdragon)



Category: Spider-Man (Movieverse)
Genre: M/M, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-11-02
Updated: 2003-11-02
Packaged: 2017-10-15 02:49:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elekdragon/pseuds/Elektra%20Pendragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Norman comforts his son, but takes it too far.  Sometimes it's hard to tell where Norman ends and the Goblin begins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: takes place after Harry sees MJ and Peter together, when he returns home to find his father.  
> Warning: Father/son incest. Issues of consent. Multiple personality twistedness. I changed some of the lines from the film, to make it a different take on the scene. Huge thanks go out to my beta, Va Carper, who was willing to read it when others weren't.

Norman Osborn loved the colour black. Black, like Harry's eyes when he's hurting and vulnerable. Black, like the bruises Norman could never explain to his son. Black, like the house when Harry snuck back in, crawling back to family when the rest of the world abandoned him.

Norman barely heard the young man calling out to him, the Goblin's laughter was so loud in his ears. Finally, the cries of "Dad?" broke through, barely audible, almost like a whisper in the storm. It was enough to give Norman the strength to leave the room and appear at the top of the stairs for his son.

Harry stared up at Norman from the stairwell, so full of hurt and resignation. His face looked bruised, even though he probably never took a single physical blow. Yet, he'd been hurt so badly. "You were right about MJ--you were right about everything. She's in love with Peter."

"Parker..." His Other rejoiced at that anguished tone, slithering to the surface like oil to fake concern and dig for more information on their newly-identified foe. "How does he feel about her?" /Would he die for her?/ Norman could taste the greed on his lips, the way the Goblin planned heartlessly to manipulate the boy into giving him exactly what he wanted. Norman watched it all, wanting nothing more than to forget about things like Spiderman.

"There's no one Peter cares for more..." Harry's black eyes were almost tearful as he gave up his hope that someone might love him best. Always begging for attention; his need for affection was as palpable as a puppy's.

"I'm sorry. I haven't been there for you..." Norman didn't have to fake the concern as he pressed against the Goblin, reaching out for his son as he descended the stairs, needing to comfort him. "I'm going to rectify certain inequities," the Goblin promised seconds before he fell back into the black corners of Norman's mind, watching from the shadows. Norman wrapped his arms around Harry, encompassing the boy. Any other time, the closeness would have embarrassed Harry; he would have pulled away as he always would, muttering something about 'too little, too late.' This time, however, Harry needed someone to be there for him, and for the first time Norman needed to be nowhere else but here for his son.

Harry melted into his father's arms. His typically stiff reaction to contact shifted, becoming soft until he was leaning--weak, needy--against Norman. Norman held him close, trying hard to not bruise his son's ribs with his new strength. He could kill the boy with a touch, but the thought didn't make him pull away from the embrace--it would hurt them both more if he were to let go now.

Harry made a strangled noise, his back shuddering as he fought to control his emotions. Norman petted down his spine, rubbing in circles across his back. He lightly rocked Harry back and forth, much as he should have when he was a baby. Norman had rarely been there for his son, always too busy creating his empire. He closed his eyes and tried to remember Harry as a baby, as a child. He had vague recollections of the wild young boy, defiant and angry, but he couldn't remember any farther back.

But he would remember this. He would remember everything from now on.

Harry settled down with a heavy sigh, his chin nudging and rubbing against Norman's shoulder. His son was humming, lightly, some tune that seemed oddly familiar, but he couldn't place it.

Finally, Harry pulled back, his hands dropping away from his father's shoulders. His dark eyes were downcast, his face starkly pale against the black of his clothes. Always trying to do something to please his father--from dressing in his favorite colour to making sure to bring up a cup of his favorite coffee when Norman was working late. Harry knew so much about his father, and Norman could remember so little about his son.

Norman's fingers fitted perfectly along Harry's jaw, his long fingers matching the strong line as he lifted Harry's face. Those dark black eyes, glittering slightly, rose to meet his.

Norman had forgotten just how beautiful Harry's mother had been. Harry had gotten most of his good looks from her, taking only the strength of his face, the line of his muscles, from his father. It was almost frightening that Norman had never noticed just how handsome his son was, how he could have made himself a career as a model or an actor. This was a face to rule an empire, a face to inspire love and loyalty.

"I couldn't have chosen a better son," Norman said aloud, speaking what was going through his head.

Harry's face took on a lightness, his pale marble skin glowing from the inside with some kind of wondering joy. It was as if someone had suddenly handed him the world--or something better. But the blackness returned, his features shadowed by some dark thought. "I always thought you wanted Peter for your son. Everyone loves him more than me."

Norman scoffed, his fingers thoughtfully stroking the slight scruff on Harry's cheek. "The boy is smart. I can admire that. But you are my /son/." Norman realized how possessive he must have sounded, but he felt possessive, and proud, so very proud, of this young, beautiful creature he helped to create.

He could feel it, the strange sensation of connection--of BLENDING--when the Goblin came forward not to take over but to merge with him, so that it was almost like they weren't two different people, but just one strange man. He could feel the restlessness in his skin, the constant shivering, static energy that emerged with his Other, but he wasn't out of control. Not yet.

Slowly, Norman leaned forward, holding Harry's face still with the gentle but demanding pressure of his fingers. He pressed a soft, hardly affectionate peck of lips on Harry's mouth, much like those loveless kisses his wife would give Norman before she jerked him to completion in her elegantly manicured hands. Like she gave Harry before she left them both forever.

Harry didn't recoil from the touch. It was so quick, it had hardly been there. His mouth pursed into a straight line, the skin turning slightly blue as he bit the inside of his lips. Thick black lashes fluttered against his cheeks as his eyes opened and closed. /So confused./ The stairwell seemed to darken around them, until they were alone together in the shadows.

"You are my son," Norman said again, aloud, to himself. Reminding his Other, in case he had forgotten.

His free hand sought the strong curve of Harry's shoulder, gripping once in a reassuring half-hug before he pulled Harry back to his chest, letting go of his cheek only after he set Harry's head on his shoulder again. Norman wrapped both hands across his back, rubbing in decreasing circles until he was just pressing against the small of his back, pressing the young man against him.

/He is my son!/

/He is so beautiful. And so needy./

It was hard to tell the difference between the thoughts. It was hard to think, hard to concentrate on anything but the way that Harry's hands came up to rest on Norman's hips--not pushing him away, but holding him close. "Dad?" Harry asked, his voice sounding so small and afraid.

"Harry," Norman whispered into his hair, turning his face into the younger man until he could press his lips against his neck. The pulse under his mouth was frantic, almost bird-like--light, quick, filled with energy. "I won't hurt you," Norman assured him, repeating it in his mind so that the Goblin would not forget. /Don't hurt him. He is so delicate. Don't hurt him./

Harry whimpered lightly as Norman began to walk backwards, leading him up the last, short flight of stairs and towards his study. Tiny noises came from the young man's throat, incomprehensible even though he felt them rumble against his lips and tongue. The study's doors were open; he didn't even need to look behind him as he blindly led Harry inside. Norman's senses could detect every slight shiver in the air, every noise in the house. No one was there but the two of them, father and son, as it so often was these days. There was never a need for closed doors. Not any more.

The tearing noise was so loud in the silence, for a moment Norman was startled, thinking he had somehow broken his son. He wrenched his mouth away from the young man's jaw and held him at arms' length. There were dark red marks across his neck, fresh and sparkling with saliva. The tatters of his black sweater fell to the floor, sliding off skin like oil.

/Don't hurt him./

/He wants it... so... much./

/He's so beautiful./

/He is my son./

It all sounded like his own voice in his head, so familiar he couldn't tell the thoughts apart. Harry's skin, bare under his hands, was also familiar, even though he couldn't remember touching him like this before--not even in the greatest of innocence. Touches were things for layers, for clothes and jackets and angry words.

Norman didn't want any of that between them anymore. He wanted to be there for his son. He wanted to see Harry naked before him, to know him as intimately as Harry seemed to know Norman.

"Take them off," he said, hardly realizing the words came from his mouth.

Harry's mouth--wide and generous, like his mother--curved, twisted, his dark eyes looking puffy and tender. He remained still, hunched between Norman's hands, not understanding.

Norman let his hands slide down that smooth skin, feeling the bulge of muscle in his arms, across his chest. His hips were slim and almost bony. He rested his hands on the belt, but didn't move further. "Take them off," he said again, softly, almost a question rather than a command.

Harry's hands moved like a dream--slow, yet too fast, almost surreal--as he unbuckled the belt, slid open the buttons, tugged down the zipper. He automatically toed out of his shoes, shifting from one side to another within his father's arms, leaning against those restraining hands as he moved. Finally, the dark fabric slid off his legs, and Harry was completely bare before him.

He is so beautiful.

Norman clutched his son's hips and pulled him back to his chest. Harry's limbs molded around Norman's body, his stiff body melting against him to cover every contour, to press into every curve. Harry was liquid as Norman laid him down across the large overstuffed chair, curling into the small space as Norman positioned him just right. His black eyes were wide, almost wild, as he watched his father settle above him. They touched everywhere, Norman's skin on fire where soft hands plucked at his shirt, tugged at his pants. Those small touches alone were nearly too much. He pulled Harry's hands off his body, gripping the wrists together in one hand and setting them above his head. He pressed down, pushing them into the cushion until Harry nodded. When he let go, they remained crossed above his head, fingers entangled.

Harry's chin tucked into his chest as Norman lifted his legs and pushed them back, draping them over the arms of the chair. Norman traced the thick muscles of his thighs before gripping tight, pushing them farther apart until he could see everything--every delicate, secret inch of his son.

So beautiful.

Harry's taste was just as delicate. Norman could have hurt him there, as he licked and sucked on that sweet, elusive, incredibly sensitive skin. His long, swelling penis; his clenching, tender anus. Such unsexy words for such delicious flesh. He could have hurt him there, so easily, as his son moaned and whimpered above him, but he didn't.

Norman took his time, tasting and touching and stretching and playing until Harry was incoherent. His fingers clawed at each other as he fought to keep them still. Norman reached up to hold them down again as he twisted three fingers inside. Harry cried out, fighting his grip, contorting on the impaling fingers, but Norman held him down easily, riding it out until he was still once more.

Harry's eyes opened, glistening black orbs in his shocking white face. For a long moment, Norman just looked down at his son, drinking in his expression, memorizing the taste and smell and feel of him. His hand gripped harder, his fingers crooked inside, and Harry moaned in surprise, eyes clenching shut as he shuddered on the edge of orgasm. Norman eased his fingers out, his hand gently letting up its grip on his wrists. His hands settled on Harry's hips as he slid his son off the chair, lifted him onto his lap, and slowly pressed himself inside.

Harry cried, as he did before, his entire body shaking as he held back tears and sobs and pain. Norman held the younger man to his chest, settling deeper inside, shifting lightly, petting him until the boy gave in and gave it all up. He sobbed, pressing his face into his father's shoulder until Norman could feel the wet, salty tears through his shirt. Norman rubbed his back, rocking slightly, taking up that softly hummed tune Harry had sung before.

When he quieted, Norman laid him back down on the seat cushion to look into Harry's face. His eyes glittered like fire-lit obsidian. Norman traced the line of tears with his hand, wiping them away, licking the wetness off his fingers. Then he held Harry's hips steady, and began to thrust in earnest.

Silent, silvery tears continued to fall from Harry's closed eyes, making his black lashes stick together in starbursts. Norman kept up with the humming, timing his rocking with the simple melody of the tune. It had hardly began before it was over, his body cracking like a whip as his orgasm overcame him. Norman cried out into Harry's mouth, kissing his lips raw until his heart calmed and that last bit of black oil crept out of his vision, leaving things perfectly clear.

Harry was unconscious beneath him, his handsome face soft in sleep against the dark fabric of the chair. Norman slipped out of his body without even a shudder, his own limbs feeling blessedly relaxed and calm as he hadn't felt in months. He touched the scruffy line of Harry's jaw, following down the marks that covered his neck. He stroked his chest and over his body, feeling the coolness of sweat, the stickiness of semen, the slickness of blood.

So beautiful, so perfect. So sweet.

Norman turned to see the green mask hanging off the corner of the chair, looking down at Harry's unconscious form with demonic eyes. He picked it up, turned it away from the sight of his son, held it against his chest so he wouldn't have to hear its mocking voice.

Norman turned and left the room, not seeing those dark eyes looking up at him, or the marks blackening across the young man's body.


End file.
